The devil's sons
by IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: John always knew there was something special about Sherlock, but he never dared to believe that Sherlock - and his brother Mycroft - might be the devil's sons... JohnLock, MyStrade
1. Chapter 1

John always knew there was something special about Sherlock. Not his intelligence, of course that was brilliant and the doctor would never stop being fascinated by the moments when Sherlock would look at a corpse and would suddenly know **everything** about that person, the murderer – bloody hell, even everything about the cousin of the murder's sister! No, it was his aura. He didn't believe in such things, energy or Yin and Yang, but he just… felt that Sherlock wasn't normal. Everyone would tell you that, Sally and Anderson were at the front of the line, but no one – except Mycroft – would be able to tell that there was something more, behind the annoying and loud way Sherlock presented himself. They would take a look at his figure, his skinny and tall body and scream 'Freak', regardless if John or even Sherlock were able to hear them clearly. Sherlock would ignore that behavior, but it made John angry every time they dared call Sherlock that. He was human, after all!

Well, anyway, there was something about Sherlock, but John wasn't able to put a finger on it, even if he felt like he could taste the words on his tongue, but he was never able to say them. He had tried, but once he was sure he was right, the thoughts disappeared. He would spend sleepless nights, which he had quite often because of Sherlock's violin and his nightmares, in his bed, thinking about what this feeling could be, the knowledge that Sherlock had a secret he wasn't willing to share – maybe he wasn't even aware that John was coming close to figuring it out – and that he, John Watson, could find it out, even if the consulting detective always told him he was as silly and slow-minded as the average person, kept him awake and busy. Sometimes he wouldn't notice that Sherlock had stopped torturing the instrument or that the sun had rose, because he was lost in thought, so deep that even the sound of Sherlock shooting the gun couldn't snap him out of it.

First, he had thought that Sherlock was a criminal. Who could have blamed him for that idea? The body parts, the skull and the weapons it's not surprising he was never able to keep that fantasy out of his mind. Sherlock was a self-named sociopath after all, which, in John's opinion, wasn't far away from committing murder. But even Mycroft wouldn't have been able to cover **that** for his brother, at least John hoped so. But he had doubted that Sherlock would leave any clues or hints. No, he would leave faked ones, fingerprints or marks and nobody would be able to figure out who the killer was. John had once tried to ask Sherlock about that idea, but the mastermind had just glared at him with a raised eyebrow before he continued to use his laptop. To be honest, it had been John's, but he stopped complaining. No, Sherlock wasn't a criminal; John was pretty sure even that would get boring to Sherlock after a while.

After a client had tried to stab Sherlock with a stake, right after pinning a cross to the wall, John had thought about the possibility that Sherlock was a vampire. He didn't believe in this kind of nonsense, the only reason he had told himself that he had researched the blood-sucking creatures was, that he had been bored and Sherlock had been in Ireland because of a case, without John who was suffering from the flu at the time. Sherlock was pale, yes, and skinny, tall, dangerous-looking, incredibly smart, but his skin wasn't cold like that of a corpse, he was slower than John – most of the time – and he couldn't turn into a bat, or at least John hadn't noticed that he could, was highly unlikely. John had to admit, Sherlock could be like a hunter sometimes. He could appear in the room, out of nowhere, like he had been there for a long time without being noticed. Or, even if John could have sworn nobody entered their home, the violin would suddenly start to play and every time John would run into that room, he would see Sherlock, casually sitting in a chair, the bow resting in his long fingers and the shadows dancing on his features would disappear as soon as he looked at John.

He would never deny that Sherlock was a little demonic, how could anyone with a sane mind say that?, the way he would watch a crime scene like he had grown up next door to one, the way he touched a corpse without hesitation… _Like he only touched a stone or an insect, something small, and nothing compared to him._ But a vampire? No, John had thought while closing the web pages just as Sherlock had entered the room, that didn't feel right. He was closer to the solution than before, but still not close enough to solve the mystery. Sherlock was dark, a dangerous man with an aura of mystery and secrets and god, John wanted nothing more than to know what the hell he was! He couldn't stop thinking about it and Sherlock seemed to notice, but he never said a word, he just stood in a corner every time John was staring at the screen of his laptop and smiled. Not a happy one, if John had to describe it, he would say it was a that of a killer, like a murderer who had left some clues for the detective and said detective was about to solve the puzzle. Just to be killed.

John shook his head and tried to think about something else, anything, the weather, his job, the new and already solved case, **anything **but Sherlock. That bloody annoying man he accepted not only as his flat mate, but also as a friend. At the moment, Sherlock sat on the couch, hidden in the darkness of the evening surrounding them. It was eight pm and already dark. He could see the moon, a full moon, behind the buildings around their flat. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep, his body was aching for sleep, but his mind refused to heed it. It was Sherlock's fault, who else could keep him awake without saying anything? He was quiet, he didn't move, not at all. Something wasn't right. A trap, perhaps. Maybe he was asleep? His breath was calm, almost **too** calm. His eyes were closed, but still… John felt watched. Every move he made every fucking breath he took, he could see the expression of slight amusement on Sherlock's face, only for a few seconds, but hell – he saw it that was all that mattered! He groaned loudly and closed the window he had been looking out of for two hours.

"What's so funny, Sherlock?" he asked as he looked at Sherlock on whose face a smile appeared.

Sherlock didn't answer, not that John had expected him to. _I should stay quiet_, he told himself mentally. _It's peaceful and I could try to sleep, after all…_

"Do you have an experiment going on, Sherlock?"

"Of course not, John, the fact that I'm laying here should be proof enough, don't you think?" Sherlock said without opening his eyes. "But of course you would try to find a reason for my – in your eyes – strange behavior."

John rolled his eyes. He had already checked the kitchen and every bottle or box he had been able to find, but that wasn't proof that Sherlock wasn't planning something. Was he bored? Of course he was, Sherlock was bored 23 hours of the day, the one not bored one was because of a case. They didn't have many cases this week. DI Lestrade wasn't at Scotland Yard, he had taken four days off, if Sally had informed him correctly. Maybe to spend time with his wife or just to relax. John stood up and left the flat. He needed fresh air, time to think without a certain Holmes and his mind games, John couldn't win. It was cold, outside, and very windy. It seemed like a storm was about to come, he could smell the rain in the air, a thunderstorm. Splendid, why hadn't he grabbed his jacket? He wrapped his arms around his torso and began to walk faster. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock at the window, only a shadow but he could see the cold, grey eyes of his flat mate shining in the darkness. Then he was too far away to see anything.

Sherlock had been behaving strangely the last few days. Maybe it was because of the case they got at the beginning of the week, a young woman killed in front of a church, naked and crucified, the words 'We killed a demon' carved into her chest. Sherlock hadn't looked very happy when Lestrade had told him where the crime scene was, but he hadn't said a single word. John shook his head. There was no reason why Sherlock was in such a bad mood, but he was a Holmes, after all. And they didn't seem to be normal. Sherlock, sure, he was strange most of the time, aggressive but brilliant, a mastermind, but the last few days... it was odd.

John continued to walk alone in the darkness, without any company. The streets were empty, not even cabs drove next to him. He looked up to the sky where not a single cloud was, just the moon and a few stars. Maybe Sherlock was an angel, he thought with a smirk, a creature of higher power and his guardian angel. A consoling thought. His sister had always watched out for her little brother, but now, no one seemed to care. Except Sherlock. He would risk his own life to save John, he made that point pretty clear and John would never be able to forget it. He was Sherlock's only friend and for that, he was thankful. It was an honour, after all, even if the most people thought it was torture or a punishment.

Behind him, a car stopped abruptly and caught his attention almost too late. There were two men, both dressed in black clothes, masked, but he could still see their faces. They ran in his direction and he followed his first instinct: Run. He let his cane fall on the ground and started to run as fast as he could. Both men followed him, faster than he was with his limp. He had two options: Scream until someone heard him or fight. His chances were good. He had army training, and – contrary to popular belief – it had saved his life once or twice. The men didn't look like they had been in a fight before, more like amateurs who didn't know what to do. They couldn't handle a soldier, he was pretty sure about that. So John stopped in the middle of his run, turned around and punched the first man, who was faster than his colleague, in the face. Blood came out of his nose and John heard the sound of breaking bones. Before the first one could do anything, John kicked him in the stomach and he fell on his back just as the other arrived. He managed to reach John, before the blond man was able to do anything, a hand going to John's mouth. John saw a knife shining in the darkness and in the next moment, he felt pain. Not as strong as the pain when a bullet hits you, but strong enough for his knees to give in.

"You in a funk, soldier?" one of the men asked him, his strong accent gave his origin away, American. John wanted to say something, but he couldn't, the other man kneed him in the gut and John groaned under pain. "You're pretty weak, aren't ya?"

"He's a soldier, dude, just knock him out and the boss will be happy!" The other man also seemed to be from America, but John felt dizzy, his mind could be playing tricks on him, but then... what did they want from him?

"Do I look like I care? This man here is working with the Freak, why shouldn't we have a little fun?"

They seemed to know Sherlock, at least they used the nickname Sally gave the detective. John wasn't happy. Not one bit, he wanted to scream and fight and punch everyone in the face, but he could only lie on the cold and wet ground – and as if things couldn't get any worse it had started to rain, _lovely_. The men lifted him up and before John knew what had happened, he was in a pickup, handcuffed and almost unconscious.

He tried to stay awake, he really tried, but he couldn't. He was still tired, after all, and even in such a situation, even with his army training, he couldn't resist. It seemed so easy, he just had to close his eyes and let the sleep comfort him like an old friend. They must have given him drugs, sleeping medication, probably it was on the knife he had seen in the man's hand, because normally he would fight and scream instead of laying perfectly still. He could hear the men talking fast in a foreign language he couldn't understand. Some words, yes, maybe it was English, maybe an accent, he didn't really care. He groaned and rested his hands on his eyes.

"I have… to… stay…" he mumbled weakly, "a…wake…"

* * *

><p>"Das ist Irrsinn! (1)" he heard someone scream. John opened his eyes, but wasn't able to see anything. It was dark around him, dark and cold. There wasn't a single window in the room, only a door which was closed. Of course it was closed, he thought.<p>

"Du überschätzt ihn, mein Freund. (2)" What the hell were they talking about?

The language sounded familiar, but he was too tired to think about it clearly. He was in pain, his stomach hurt like he had been stabbed and, after he sat up to let his head rest against the cold wall, he was able to feel a wet liquid on his fingertips. Great. He was wounded, kidnapped and tired. He was a soldier, bloody hell, why hadn't he been able to defend himself?

"Hast du seinen Bruder vergessen? (3)"

"Natürlich nicht, aber die Runen halten auch ihn ab, (4)" said the second voice and even if John wasn't able to understand him, he knew that this man was the leader, the way his voice changed from a gentle one to demanding and mighty one. There was a scream and suddenly a sob.

"Sie soll den Mund halten! (5)" screamed the first man angrily. Another scream and the sound of metal hitting human flesh.

John looked around but wasn't able to find anything to attack or defend himself with. It was quiet. The only sound he could hear was the crying woman in the room next to his. The men whispered to each other until they entered John's room. The light, which flooded the room and forced John to close his eyes for a moment, was too bright and warm for his eyes which had become used to the darkness. As he looked up again, he was able to see both of them. One was tiny, and petite, the other tall, but smaller than Sherlock. While the small man looked angry - his face was red, the other man was calm. He reminded John of Mycroft Holmes, only that he didn't have an umbrella.

"Good morning, Mr. Watson," he was greeted, "I hope you slept well?"

"Who are you?"

"Warum töten wir ihn nicht einfach?" asked the small man with a smile. "Dann würde das Biest kommen."

"Don't be rude, my friend, our guest doesn't understand German. Mr. Watson, my friend here asked me why we can't just kill you," the tall man said without an accent, he copied the British pronunciations perfectly. "In his opinion, the beast would appear if we did."

"The beast?" John raised an eyebrow. The fact that he was about to die should shock him more than this simple word. _Beast_. Was that a new nickname for Sherlock? A… bizarre one, but it wouldn't surprise him, Sherlock had been called worse.

"Oh yes, the beast. Some of us call them monsters, others freaks, that's different."

"Können wir das nicht einfach überspringen?" the small man said, but after the other man cleared his throat, be began to speak English. "I said, can't we just skip that?"

The tall man laughed and shook his head. His… friend? colleague?... whispered something and left without another word. John and the other man were alone. It was the perfect chance for John. He could easily defeat this man, he was tall, but, probably, not strong. If John could surprise him and take him off guard, he could knock him out. The other German wouldn't be a threat. He was as tall as John and he seemed to be weak. Maybe they had his cell phone, he could call Sherlock or Lestrade and they would help him. Just as he was about to leap on the man, the German began to speak.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Watson. My friend was in the army and **he **isn't injured."

"Who are you?" John asked angrily, his patience was slowly fading away. He had the chance to escape and only this soldier - if the man was one, the tall one could lie about that - was in his way. Injured or not, he wouldn't give up so easy.

"You may call me Michael," the tall man said. "My friend is called Alexander. We're from Germany, as you probably already know, Mr. Watson, or should I call you Dr. Watson?"

John kept his mouth shut. Germans, so he was right about that. What did someone from Germany want from him? It wasn't a simple kidnapping, he realized with a shock, this had to be something big. They knew his name, his past, the reason why they had kidnapped him must be a big one. Who would travel from Germany to England just to kidnap an ex-army doctor?

"You seem to be confused, Dr. Watson. Don't give me that look, I know you are asking yourself if you're part of a big… event. And I will tell you: Yes, you are. You're going to be a witness to one of the most spectacular events that has ever happened."

"What are you talking about?"

Michael laughed and pointed to the ceiling. When John looked up, he saw runes. Small ones, big ones, all painted in white. He was confused as he looked on the floor, at the walls, these patterns were everywhere. Michael smiled patiently at him, as if he wanted John to figure it out on his own.

"Do you know the fairytale of Rumpelstilzchen?" Michael asked him. John raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Never heard of it. "Rumpelstiltskin perhaps?"

"Yes… that was the small man who cut himself in two pieces after they found out his name, right?"

Michael nodded. "Indeed, but that's not the full story. He said that he was The Evil, but that was a lie. The true evil is the snake, Lucifer, Satan, Diabolus, Teufel. The devil, Dr. Watson. And you're going to see him, in a way."

The devil? John shook his head. He had been kidnapped by an insane person, that only could have happened to him. Who did believe in the devil or in fairytales? John hadn't even thought that these stories were real as a kid. Stories, but nothing more.

"Ah, you are questioning my sanity?" Michael asked with a dangerous smile. "But you have to admit: There's something strange about that friend of yours, Sherlock Holmes, if I'm not mistaken. Did you ever believe that he wasn't human?"

"You want to make me believe that Sherlock is the devil?" How absurd. Sherlock, the devil? For god's sake, if that was true, no one would be alive anymore. If Sherlock was the devil, Anderson would be long dead. He would have never existed.

"Oh no, not Sherlock, and not his brother, Mycroft Holmes either. No, neither of them are the devil."

The smile Michael gave him was almost a threat. John watched him carefully as he took out a gun. The gun seemed odd, to long to actually work and the bullets he took out of the cylinder shined as bright as gold or silver. On each was an engraving. Michael caressed the metal before he put the bullets back and released the safety. At his waist, there was a box in the form of a sword, which the German took out of it a second later. He could easily kill John within seconds, hack his head off, stab him, and shoot him. How foolish of him to think that he could defeat the man. How silly, dumb, childish. Now he was about to die.

"But they are close to being him," Michael said while he pointed the gun at John, his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot. "I'm going to kill Sherlock as soon as he enters this room."

"How would Sherlock manage that?"

Michael smiled. "You don't know? You've been his flatmate for quite some time, Dr. Watson. You should have noticed it. He isn't human, after all."

There was a loud crack, the woman screamed loudly. He could hear crashing bones and his own heartbeat got faster. What was happening here? He was strong enough not so show any fear, he seemed to be calm and he thanked his training for that. But Michael… he didn't stop smiling. He seemed to be excited, happy. _His prey is here and he is about to kill it and he knew he couldn't lose this time._

"Ah, here he is, just in time," he said and turned around, but the gun was still pointed at John. "Now, let's see how fast he can kill Alexander."

Another scream, but this time, it came from the small man. A crack. The door flew off of its hinges and fell to the floor. On the top of the wood, there was Alexander, blood was everywhere. He no longer had a head, someone had ripped it off. John could see the inside of his throat. There was a shadow behind the corpse and it took John a few seconds to realize that it was Sherlock. His hands were covered in blood and he looked angry, but his eyes were just as cold as normal.

"Der Teufel ist da, wie beeindruckend (6)." Michael spoke in German again, great, now John wasn't able to understand a single word.

To his surprise, Sherlock answered in perfect German, without the slightest accent. "Wir wissen beide, dass ich nicht der Teufel bin. (7)"

Michael raised his eyebrow in the same time as he raised his sword. "Tun wir das? (8)"

John growled and caught Sherlock's attention for a few seconds. He looked at John, but didn't say a single word. John could see a few emotions in his eyes and was surprised. Regret, pain, sadness, anger. A mixture John would have never guessed Sherlock was capable of feeling. Michael began to scream as if he was about to attack, but then he started to laugh. Sherlock cocked his head.

"Du denkst, du könntest hier deine Kräfte einsetzen, Sherlock? Siehst du nicht die Zeichen um dich herum? Siegel, mein Freund, sie blocken dich ab! (9)" He smiled triumphantly and proud. Sherlock just smiled. At this moment, John was afraid. Not of Sherlock, he could never fear his friend, but of what the Holmes was capable of. He could kill Michael and they both knew it.

"Du scheinst nicht zu verstehen, dass deine Zeichen falsch sind (10)."

Michael seemed to be surprised. John was dying to know what they were talking about. He only understood that it wasn't something good for Michael, the way he looked as if someone just told him that he was about to die. He looked up to the ceiling and frowned.

"Was… (11)"

"I'm going to talk in English so John is able to understand everything," Sherlock said with a calm expression. "Your sigils are wrong, Michael. The inner circle of the main one doesn't have a _z_ in it, but a _d_. The enochian signs are in the wrong order, it's not _e, s, i, ,a ,c _and _h_, because that would mean _brother_ and would be wrong in this context, it's _i_, _a_,_ l_, _p_, _o_ and _n_, _burn_. Shall I continue or is that enough?" Sherlock smiled and, even if John didn't understand what he was saying - what was enochian?, he was still impressed. As always.

Michael stopped smiling. He clenched his sword and the gun, his finger was shaking. John knew what was about to happen and closed his eyes, counting quietly to ten and waiting for the pain to come. But nothing happened. He opened his eyes again and tried to figure out why. No one had moved. Michael still held the gun and the sword and Sherlock still stood behind the corpse. But something had changed. Was it the look on Sherlock's face? The way he watched Michael carefully? He was going to attack, John knew it, he was just waiting for the right moment.

"Was wirst du tun?" asked Michael quietly.

"I said we are going to speak in English, Michael," whispered Sherlock, calm, **dangerous calm**. "Could you repeat that again?"

Michael gritted his teeth. "What will you do?"

"I believe even you can answer that question on your own, Michael," Sherlock said. "There's only one solution to this situation. You attacked what is mine and for that, I have every right to kill you." John didn't dare to move. Kill? Sherlock would kill this man? Was he alone here, without DI Lestrade and the police?

"Um... may I ask something?" he said after clearing his throat, "What is enochian?"

"It is an ancient, angelic language, a divine language. It's used to block the energy and force of supernatural beings." Sherlock looked at him with the well-known 'Even you should have known that'-look. Michael nodded in agreement and smiled.

"Supernatural beings?" asked John confused. Okay, Michael was crazy, he got that. But Sherlock? Why did he know about a language that was supposed to be that of the angels? This whole thing was terrifying and got worse by the second. He didn't feel comfortable, but with a gun pointed at his face, who could blame him.

"John, don't play dumb. Supernatural beings are creatures normal people – like you – normally can't see and therefore don't exist, "Sherlock said with an annoyed expression, "angels, vampires, those kinds of creatures."

"He still hasn't figured it out, I'm disappointed," Michael smiled at him with a calm and wicked look in his eyes. "But that doesn't matter anymore, Dr. Watson. I'm going to end it now."

He shot. John closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come. The bullet was too fast, he knew he couldn't dodge away in time. He waited and waited, but nothing happened. As he opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see, he saw Sherlock's back right in front of him. John was confused; he hadn't heard Sherlock move. And there was blood. John didn't notice it directly, but he heard something was dripping on to the floor. It came from Sherlock's chest. Sherlock was wounded, John realized within seconds, and in a panic, the doctor stood up and ran to his friend's side. He could see the hole in the clothes, the blood and even the bullet, stuck in Sherlock's flesh.

"Interesting choice of metal for a bullet, Michael," Sherlock said. He was calm, has if he wasn't injured and bleeding. It seemed like he didn't even notice the pain. "But I had hoped you wouldn't be as silly as the hunters I killed two weeks ago in Ireland. Holy water, seriously? As if a little bit water is going to hurt me, Michael."

"B-but..." spluttered Michael, "it... the ancient books, it is written that-"

"This might work for the average demon, Michael, aber nicht für mich, (12)" Sherlock's last words were whispered, then he leapt at Michael and ripped his heart out. John stared at him, afraid and surprised. The blood flowed on the floor and a few seconds later, a heart landed next to the big puddle. Sherlock looked at him, an eyebrow raised, but his eyes seemed to burn.

"What... what have you... but you're injured... what..." John wasn't able to say anything. He could only stare at Sherlock, unable to move even as his body screamed at him to run as far as he could.

"I just ripped his heart out, if that's not obvious."

"But... why? And the wound..."

Sherlock began to smile. He laid his hand over his chest, the blood had begun to change the colour of his coat. As he moved his hand away, the wound was gone. No blood. The bullet was in Sherlock's palm.

"What are you?" John asked shocked.

"Please John, don't ask questions you can answer yourself." Sherlock took out a handkerchief to clean his hands. John looked around. Blood, everywhere there was blood and two corpses, one without a head and the other without a heart. "You really have no idea?" Sherlock glanced at John and raised an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't have asked if I did, Sherlock. A vampire? Demon?"

"Don't underestimate my power, John. A vampire or demon? That's far too weak," Sherlock said while kneeling next to the corpse, "I'm the devil's second son."

* * *

><p>(1) That's insanity!<p>

(2) You're overestimating him, my friend.

(3) You forgot his brother?

(4) Of course not, but the runes are blocking him out, too.

(5) She should be silent!

(6) The devil's here, how impressive.

(7) We both know that I'm not the devil.

(8) We do?

(9) You think you could use your power here, Sherlock? Don't you see the signs around you? Sigils, my friend, they block you out!

(10) You don't seem to understand that your signs are wrong.

(11) What...?

(12) ... but not for me.

* * *

><p>Thanks for beta-reading to SilentEyedKat<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg never knew that Mycroft Holmes existed. Of course he had seen the big, black car which was always standing next to a crime scene on which Sherlock had almost been killed, but he had never seen the owner. He figured they must be rich, but the reason why someone with money would want to be at a dirty crime scene was unclear to him. Perhaps an enemy of Sherlock, he sure had enough of them and a few would probably like to kill him. But there wasn't a single sign of a threat, just this big car with shaded windows. Sometimes he thought about knocking on the window, just to see who was stalking his work, but then he stopped himself. The car wasn't behind the tape and it always came after Sherlock solved the crime. No reason for Greg to arrest the owner. He just was...curious. Maybe it was because of his work, but he didn't trust the situation. No, he was careful and paid attention to everything around him. He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but he was able to smell the rat before he was kidnapped, killed or hurt.

But he never knew that Sherlock had an older brother. He never thought about it, anyway. Sherlock acted like an only child, so Greg never considered the possibility of siblings. Maybe the hope that his parents realized their mistake as Sherlock grew up and never gave birth to another child was too great.

He sighed quietly and lent back in his chair. His day at work was over, the others were gone, but he had to stay. There were still files to take care of, cold-cases waiting for the final sorting in the archive. The case of a woman whose corpse was found without arms, the case of a man with the head of a cat stapled on his own. Sometimes he thought about the crime scenes and even if the case was closed, he searched for missing details, something he hadn't seen the first time at the scene, or the second time. It was foolish to believe he would be able to find the murderer just by looking at the old files and photos, but it helped him keep his mind busy.

The last case had been an ugly one. A woman, not very young but not old - 43 years if his mind didn't trick him, divorced with two children living with their father. They had found her in front of a church, nailed on a cross with some words craved in her chest. It was clear that it was something religious, but neither the priest nor anyone living close by noticed anything. As always. Sherlock had refused to enter the church and told him it was obvious, a dull case on which he wouldn't waste his abilities. John had apologized before he had turned around to follow Sherlock before he left with their cab. Sometimes Greg wondered how John was able to survive Sherlock.

Someone knocked on his door and pulled him from his thoughts. Greg frowned and took a look at his watch. Almost midnight, who would want to speak to him at this time? He was no fool, his first move was to reach for his gun.

"Who's there?" he asked.

He wouldn't open the door if no one would answer him. And he wouldn't open the door if it was someone he didn't know. He could hear a chuckle, male, quietly but still hearable.

"I'm not going to repeat this question again: Who's there?"

The man in front of his door chuckled again. Something scratched over the knob, it sounded like nails scratching over a blackboard. It hurt in his ears. He released the safety of his gun and took his phone. He was alone in the building, no one would be able to help him in time and he knew that. He tried to call Sally, but his cell phone wouldn't work. The screen was black.

"Are you afraid, Detective Inspector?" a voice whispered, next to his ear. Greg turned around and tried to point his gun at the stranger - how had he been able to break in? - but he was alone in the room. "Don't be a fool, Detective Inspector, you can't hurt me with a toy."

"Who's there?" Greg asked. His hands were shaking and the laugh seemed to come from everywhere. The scratching continued and got higher and shriller within seconds. _I'm going mad, I'm definitely becoming mad._

"Just someone who's interested in Sherlock Holmes," the voice said. Something wrapped its arms around Greg's torso and pulled him toward the door. Something invisible, but still ice-cold, lifted his arm and lay his hand on the knob, ready to pull it and open the door. Greg tried to get free, but the grasp was too strong and the stranger, laughing and chuckling the whole time, didn't even flinch or move.

"Let's let my dear friend inside, shall we, Detective Inspector?"

His hand slowly pulled the door open, controlled by the force behind him. _A bad dream, really, really bad dream. You drank too much, you're mad, this isn't real. Please, this can't be real._ He could see red eyes in the darkness of the corridor, big fangs slowly reaching out for him. He closed his eyes and tried not to shiver, it was getting colder and colder. The hairs on his neck stood up, he got goose bumps. His gun lay on the ground behind him, he had no chance to reach it.

"Would you two be so kind and let him down?"

Suddenly the force behind him was gone. Greg fell on the floor and crawled to his gun, taking it with shaking hands before he turned around again and pointed his gun in the direction of the red eyes. There was a man, standing in the middle of the corridor. He was dressed in a three-piece suit with a tie and a hat. He held an umbrella in his right hand and in the other a creature Greg had never seen before. Its body seemed to be built up of ink, black and gooey like tar. Its red eyes were glancing at Greg while it showed his fangs as if he was about to attack. No sign of another creature.

"That's better, isn't it?" the stranger asked, he had an accent which reminded Greg of Scotland. "I'm afraid I have to kill you. How foolish it was to attack him, little minion. I'd say 'Think before you act next time', but there won't be a next time for you." And with that, he threw the thing against the wall, the ink splattered. The stranger held up his umbrella, opened it and secured himself with it against the ink, suddenly standing in front of Greg to shield him too.

"Who are you?" Greg asked and pointed the gun at the stranger. He just defeated a monster. Without any problems or resistance. Something wasn't right here.

The man just smiled at him and reached out to pull Greg up. He took the offered hand, eying the man mistrustfully while he helped him up. He closed his umbrella, where had the ink gone? and turned his head to look into the darkness behind them.

"I think we should leave this building immediately, if you don't mind," the posh man said and started to walk into the darkness, stopping just once before the lights were on again, "There are more of those hell spawns heading in our direction and I don't want you to get into trouble just because of your association with a certain Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do you think I would follow you?" Greg turned around and thought about his options. He could either follow the man and trust him blindly without any evidence that he wouldn't kill him like he had killed the ink-thing, or he could try to lock himself in his office until his phone started working again. Getting out of here without this man, on his own with just one gun and no knowledge of these things wasn't an option.

The man stopped and turned around, smiling at him like at a little, naïve child. "You don't have much of a choice, Detective Inspector."

There was a high-pitched growl. Greg's hackles rose abruptly and he quickly ran to the man. He seemed to know how to defend himself, he was a danger, but a smaller one than those creatures.

"I think there's no need for you to carry your gun anymore", he man took the gun out of Greg's hands and eyed it with an amused expression, "It will only do harm to the furniture and will make them sulphureous. You've had to deal with Sherlock more than once, if I'm not mistaken, try to imagine the corrosion thousands of him could do."

Greg gulped, but took his gun out of the man's hands. "I won't put away the only defense I've got!"

The man looked at him and smiled. It was a dangerous, murderous smile with shining eyes, always looking white without any iris. "I have to insist that you put it away, Detective Inspector."

"I won't, accept that."

Another growl, quickly coming in their direction. The man stopped and swung his umbrella. He laughed quietly.

"Stupid creatures," he said while tapping the umbrella on the ground. "They don't know they're facing the greatest threat in the entire universe."

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, flinching slightly when a big ink-monster broke through the wall in front of them. "You don't want to fight against that, do you? That's insane."

"For him, indeed."

The thing looked at them with bright red eyes, staring at the men before growling louder. Black liquid dropped like saliva from its teeth, big and sharp, each like a large knife. His claws were bigger than one of Greg's hands, its head almost touching the ceiling. It took one step forward, leaving a trace of ink and destruction behind it.

The man just stood there as the beast ran in his direction, growling and screaming like a thousand people all at once. Greg got out of the way. He wasn't suicidal, there was no way he would want to face something like **that**.

The monster jumped and was about to land on the man.

Time seemed to slow down.

And suddenly, there was something shining inside the eyes of the creature. It was the man's reflection, bright and clear as if Greg looked straight into a mirror. His expression was blank, emotionless. Only his eyes told Greg that he wasn't normal. Not an ordinary human being like Greg. He raised his arm just as the monster went to drive his fangs into the flesh. Greg's jaw dropped.

This man just grabbed a monster by its neck. Regardless of how hard the thing struggled and tried to escape, it wasn't able to break the grasp of the ginger man. He titled his head and said something in a tongue Greg wasn't able to understand, it sounded ancient and old, strong with hard words. The beast just growled louder, ink splattered everywhere on the floor and the walls around it, except for on the man's suit or skin.

"How many of you are waiting outside for us?" the stranger asked, suddenly speaking English again. "I'm surprised that father has been able to find us."

The beast growled. It yelled - it almost sounded like he was speaking - and pull his muzzle open.

"Well, it seems like there's no way you're going to survive this, my friend."

The man raised his umbrella and swung it like a sword, it slowly cut through the ink until the beast's head fell to the floor, the rest of the body imploded, until there was only a little puddle of ink left. Greg just starred.

"We have to leave, fast," the man said, grabbing Greg's arm and dragging him forward. "There are more of those creatures coming. I'm able to defeat them easily, but you're an easy target and the reason for them being here."

"What are they?" _What are you…?_

The man chuckled. "I'm surprised how calm you are. The last person who had to see some of them hadn't been able to scream or cry. He committed suicide a few days later."

"You didn't answer the question," Greg broke out of the hold and tried to keep up with the man. "What the hell are they?"

"Hell spawn, demons, call them whatever you please, Detective Inspector." The stranger stopped walking and turned his head to look Greg straight into the eye. "Creatures created to kill and bring agony and pain. Not capable of feeling anything but anger and the urge to kill and eat flesh and souls."

"You want me to believe that they were demons?" Greg asked. "What tells me this isn't just some kind of sick dream?"

There was something close to pity shining in the man's eyes. He smiled softly and swung his umbrella.

"I'm afraid this isn't a dream." He tapped the ground beneath them, Greg's surprised scream just made him smile more.

The ground began to shake under his feet, slowly starting but getting faster and faster within seconds. There was heat, it felt like fire eating its way through his veins, burning his muscles and nerves until he was numb and useless. Tears began to run down his cheeks, he didn't know why; he no longer had control of his own body, watching its movements like a prisoner unable to do anything. Black lines appeared, surrounding him in a circle of runes, symbols and coldness like ice. He wanted to close his eyes, but the man took Greg's hands and laid one of his own on the shaking detective's shoulders.

"It will be over soon," he whispered, but Greg just whimpered in agony. "Open your eyes and look at it, look into the darkness waiting for sinners after their death."

Greg opened his eyes, afraid of what he would see, but unable to disobey the task.

Directly under his feet was a hole, bigger than the whole corridor, disappearing under the walls. He seemed to float over eternal darkness, there was nothing under him but blackness and air. The man still held his shoulder and smiled sadly at him, regret and fear in the bright blue-grey eyes. He looked down and suddenly Greg saw everything.

Things had been invisible to him, but now he could clearly see people, has if they had been there the whole time. Some were tied on rocks or barrows, others had been stabbed by gigantic spikes and stalactites, the spears still impaled through their body, blood everywhere, the only colour he was able to see. He could hear screams, crying and begging for the end to their pain; the smell of fire and burning flesh, making him want to run away, and forget what he was seeing, the bodies, the pain and the abyss of this hole.

The hand on his shoulders moved to his chin and forced him to look up, straight into the man's eyes. He wiped away some of Greg's tears and tapped his umbrella on the ground again. Suddenly Greg was able to move. The fear and burning disappeared as if it had never existed. He blinked surprised and confused, disoriented and lost in his thoughts and the memories of the hole, the place where sinners had to pay for their mistakes.

"Was…" Greg began but his voice shook too much to continue. The man just smiled and nodded.

"Indeed, that was the twisting and murderous place called hell. The truth behind the subjective view of every sinner whose worst fear comes true once he or she has entered this place. One may see fire, burning his flesh and tearing him apart from the inside until he is hoarse from screaming and his body is red because of his attempts to escape his chains. While another may see spiders, snakes or something else. But this place was the true hell, darkness, coldness, everything is lonely and ice-cold." He paused and examined Greg, slightly shaking his head before continuing to speak. "It's rather interesting how people think hell burns because of fire; ice is worse than fire, killing you slowly and with shivering and shaking until you can't move anymore, slowly dozing off only to be reawakened by lurid pain."

Greg jerked back until his back was resting against the wall. The man lowered his hands. He seemed to completely lost, alone in his thoughts. He reminded Greg of John when he had just woken up from his nightmares or of Sherlock after he thought John had died.

"You want me to believe that hell is real, that there are demons hunting me because I know Sherlock and that you have the ability to make the underworld appear and disappear whenever you want? Who the hell are you?" Greg pulled out his gun again and aimed for the man's chest. He didn't flinch away, he just looked Greg in the eyes and clutched his umbrella. "Who the fuck are you? Some kind of insane psychopath, a sick person having fun with drugs and illusions and costumes?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," the man told him, every word stretched. His voice was calm, but there was something shining in his eyes, almost too small to be noticed. However, Greg did - maybe because Sherlock was slowly affecting his deducing skills or just because he'd seen that shining quite often. "It's a pleasure, Detective Inspector."

Greg just turned around and began to walk in the opposite direction. Mr. Holmes didn't follow him, he just stood there and stared at the wall. But then, suddenly, he was standing directly in front of Greg, looking at him with a calm expression and cold eyes.

"I must insist that you stay here inside this building."

"And what if I don't?" Greg wanted to push this Holmes away, but suddenly there were two fingertips resting on his forehead. He immediately felt dizzy and tired.

"I don't think you'll have a chance to say no, Detective Inspector."

Greg wanted to say something, but his mouth was closed. He could only stare into Mycroft Holmes's eyes and see apology in them, hiding behind the coldness and calmness. He didn't feel anything has he hit the floor or when someone lent him up against the wall.

But when he awoke a few hours later, there was blood everywhere. And it wasn't his.

* * *

><p>Thanks for beta-reading to SilentEyedKat<p> 


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